he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh; in the following year he became a Fellow of the Royal Society of London; in 1787, he was chosen a Corresponding Member of the Batavian Society; in 1808, the university of Glasgow conferred on him the degree of LL.D.; and shortly before his death, he was added to the small number of English members of the Institute of France.

In one of the public squares of Glasgow-the city which witnessed Watt's early struggles a statue has been erected to his memory; and thus has been expiated the narrow policy which originally offered an obstacle to his useful career.

32

NE morning in the month of August 1789, a man and a child were walking through the extensive and beautiful park of Rambouillet-a royal residence, thirty-six miles south-west of Paris. The man, though of a somewhat bulky frame, was yet in the prime of life, and had a mild and distinguished countenance. His simple style of dress did not indicate the precise rank which he held in society, yet his aquiline nose, his majesty of air, as well as the broad blue ribbon visible between his white waistcoat and lace frill, marked him as one of the royal family. As for the child, he was remarkable for almost angelic beauty, and his clustering curls of fair hair which hung over his open neck and shoulders. About four years and five months old, but, like all precocious children, taller than usual at that age, he bore in his features an air of bright intelligence, shaded, however, as some would think, with a stamp of melancholy unsuitable to his years. Gay and lively in the extreme, his animal spirits were at one moment in wild exuberance; in the next his mood changed to deep depression. His bright blue eyes had the irresistible charm of having their brilliance softened by a pensiveness of

Like most children of his age, he did not always make proper application of the maxims which he heard. One day that, in the exuberance of animal spirits, he was about to throw himself into the midst of some rose-bushes: 'Take care,' said the queen, ‘those thorns might tear your eyes out, and will certainly scratch you severely.'

'But, dear mamma,' answered he in a most magnanimous tone, 'thorny paths, you know, lead to glory.'

'It is a noble maxim,' replied the queen, but I see you do not quite understand it. What glory can there be in getting your eyes scratched out for the mere pleasure of jumping into a hedge? If, indeed, it were to extricate any one from danger, there would be glory in it, but as it is, there is only imprudence. My child, you must not talk of glory till you are able to read the history of true heroes who have disinterestedly sacrificed life and fortune for the good of others.'

On one occasion, his governess, uneasy at seeing him running at headlong speed, said to the queen: 'He will surely fall.'

'He must learn to fall,' replied Marie Antoinette.

'But he may hurt himself."

'He must learn to endure pain,' said the queen, who, with all her fondness, had no desire to make her boy effeminate.

REMOVAL TO PARIS.

The love of rural pursuits evinced by the young dauphin was destined to be rudely broken in upon. While with his parents at Versailles in 1789, the revolution in France broke out, and filled the royal family with alarm. It was the misfortune of Louis XVI. to have fallen on evil times, and, with all his good qualities, to become the victim on whose head the popular resentment for longendured injuries should be visited. It was another of his misfortunes to be surrounded by incompetent advisers, and to be deserted by the classes who might have been expected to rally round the throne. When tumults began to take place in Paris, it was considered necessary that the king should proceed thither to shew himself to the people at the Hotel de Ville. He went on the 17th of July 1789. Everybody knows that this movement gave a trifling lull to the storm. When the sovereign received the tricoloured cockade from the mayor of Paris in front of an assembled multitude, a shout of Vive le Roi! arose on all sides. The king breathed again freely at that moment; he had not for a long time heard such acclamations. During his absence the queen shut herself up in her private rooms with her family. She sent for several persons belonging to the court, but their doors were locked; terror had driven them away. A deadly silence reigned throughout the palace; fear was at its height; the king was hardly expected to return. He did how

ever come back, and was received with inexpressible joy by the queen, his sister, and his children. He congratulated himself that no accident had happened; and it was then he repeated several times: 'Happily no blood has been shed, and I swear that never shall a drop of French blood be shed by my order.'

It is not our intention to relate the history of the revolution which had already commenced, but only to note a few particulars in the life of our young hero and his unfortunate parents. On various pretexts it was resolved by the mob of Paris, a large portion of whom were women of the lowest habits, to march to Versailles and bring the royal family to Paris. This alarming movement took place on the 5th and 6th of October. The court, deserted by the host of nobles who might have been expected to rally round the throne, and with scarcely any friends left but their immediate attendants and attached guards, were on this momentous occasion exposed to many gross indignities, and with some difficulty were able to save their lives. Carriages being prepared, they were compelled to go into them and proceed to Paris, attended by a rabble of many thousands. It was not the least of the many painful circumstances accompanying this removal, that the king was compelled to withdraw his son from the healthy breezes of the country to the comparative closeness of a city atmosphere. The boy, also, was inconsolable. To be taken away from his little garden was a sore grief; his beautiful flowers, the flowers reared with his own hands, would, he said, wither and die; and he was like to die at the thought. In order to console him, he was told he should have much nicer flowers at Paris, and as many as he could wish for. They will not be my own flowers that I planted and watered,' he answered; ‘I shall never love any flowers so well as these.'

Clinging to his mamma in terror of the horde of wild-looking men and women who were shouting in demoniac laughter, the dauphin entered one of the coaches; the queen alternately trying to pacify his fears, and to look with calmness on the terrific throng. Already blood had been shed. The mob, in forcing the palace, had killed two of the guards who defended the queen's apartments from outrage; and with the heads of these unfortunate and brave men stuck on the end of poles, a party preceded the royal carriages to Paris. These wretches, with a refinement of cruelty which, we imagine, could scarcely be matched out of France, stopped on the way at Sèvres, and compelled a hairdresser to dress the gory heads according to the fashion of the period. In the rear of this band slowly came the procession of soldiers, citizens, women—an indescribable crowd of the vilest beings on earth-some riding astride on cannons, some carrying pikes or muskets, and numbers waving long branches of poplar. It looked like a moving forest, amidst which shone pikeheads and gun-barrels. After the royal carriages came the king's faithful guards, some on foot and some on horseback, most of them

uncovered and worn out with want of sleep, hunger, and fatigue. Finally came a number of carriages containing deputies of the Assembly, followed by the bulk of the Parisian army.

In the course of the journey, which was protracted to a late hour, the king and queen were constantly reviled by the crowd of savage women who thronged about them. There was at the time a dearth of bread in Paris, arising from natural causes; but it was imputed to the king, and now that he was in the hands of the mob, they cried out that bread would no longer be either dear or scarce. 'We shall no longer,' they shouted at the windows of the royal carriages, we shall no longer want bread; we have the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy with us.' In the midst of all the revilings, tumult, and singing, interrupted by frequent discharges of musketry, might be seen Marie Antoinette preserving the most courageous tranquillity of soul, and an air of noble and inexpressible dignity.

The departure of the royal family for Paris was so hurried that no time was afforded to make preparations at the palace of the Tuileries, which, since the minority of Louis XV., had not been the residence of the kings of France. Some apartments, however, were cleared for their reception; and from this time may be dated the captivity of Louis XVI. in the hands of his people.

On the day after the arrival of the court in Paris, a noise was heard in the garden of the Tuileries, which terrifying the dauphin, he threw himself into the arms of the queen, crying out: 'Oh, mamma, is yesterday come again?' The child in his simplicity could not account for the revolutionary movements of which he, with others, was the victim; and a few days after making the above affecting exclamation, he went up to his father to speak to him on the subject.

'Well, Louis, what is it you wish to say?' asked the king.

'I want to know, papa,' he answered pensively, 'why the people, who formerly loved you so well, are all at once angry with you; what is it you have done to irritate them so much?'

His father, interested in the question, took him upon his knee, and spoke to him nearly as follows: 'I wished, my dear Louis, to make my people still happier than they were. I wanted money to

pay the expenses occasioned by wars. I asked my people for money, as the former kings of France had done; the magistrates composing the parliament opposed it, and said that my people had alone a right to consent to it. I thereupon assembled the principal inhabitants of every town, whether distinguished by birth, fortune, or talents, at Versailles; and that is what is called the States-General. When all were assembled, they required concessions of me which I could not make, either with due respect for myself or with justice to you, who will be my successor. Wicked men, inducing the people to rise, have occasioned the excesses of the last few days; the people must not be blamed for them.'